“Oh, no, no! Just lay me on the settee there! Somebody will be down directly. Don’t trouble yourself to bring the chair in. Tony will attend to that. Thank you! Good-night, Mr. Gilchrist! Good-night, Miss May!” While she hurried all this out, a stumble on the back stairs was the precursor of Homer’s appearance in the dim recesses of the hall. He alighted at the bottom of the flight on all-fours, picked himself up and shambled forward, one hand on his head, the other on his elbow, an imbecile grin spreading his jaws. “_Now_, I a’most broke me _nake_ on them stairs!” March had deposited Hester upon the hall lounge, and although perceiving her anxiety to get rid of him, hesitated to commit her to the keeping of a man who was, apparently, but half awake. “Let me carry you up!” he insisted to Hester. “He may fall again.” “Oh, Tony is all right!” in the same strained key as before. “He never lets anything but himself drop.” A rustle and swift step sounded above stairs. Someone ran down. It was Hetty. Her white wrapper was begirt with a ribbon loosely knotted; her rust-brown hair was breaking from constraint and tumbling upon her shoulders. March’s first pained thought was: “She knew I would be in, yet did not mean to see me again to-night!” A second glance at the colorless face and wild eyes awakened unselfish concern. “What is the matter? Who is hurt?” she queried anxiously. Hester’s reply was a shriek of laughter. “Nothing! Nobody! Only Tony has broken his neck again, and Mr. Gilchrist did not know that it is an hourly occurrence in our family life, so he insisted upon taking me upstairs himself.” “Mr. Gilchrist is very kind!” Hetty’s tone was deadly mechanical; in speaking she looked at nobody. “I sent Homer down when I heard you coming. I am sorry he was not in time.” May had joined the group. “I hope,” she said in her cheery way, “that none of the rest of your household have come to grief to-day?” Hetty turned to her with eyes that questioned silently—almost defiantly. “I mean, of course, did the boys bring home the proper quantum of eyes and fingers?” “Yes! oh, yes! thank you! they went to bed tired, but whole, I believe.” “That is fortunate, but remarkable for a Fourth of July report,” said March. “Come, May! Good-night!” He had seen, without comprehending, the intense relief that flooded the girl’s visage at his sister’s second sentence, also that she was feverishly anxious to have them go. And the sound above stairs, hushed by Hester’s shrill tones—was it low, anguished weeping? The mourner was not Hetty, yet her dry eyes were full of misery. His big, soft heart ached with futile sympathy. By what undiscovered track could he fare near enough to her to make her conscious of this and of a love the greatness of which ought to help her bear her load of trouble?